


to love you out loud

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Fucking in the Ritz (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Semi-Public Sex, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Tenderness, messy blowjobs, romantic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 00:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: It's that new love, that I-can't-get-enough-of you love, I-want-you-everywhere love, and it's a wild and tender thing, but yes, it also sometimes means that Aziraphale can't wait to get home before he wants it. And Crowley, oh. He'll give Aziraphale whatever he wants. Whatever you like, angel. The Ritz's coatroom has an antechamber, you know."You’re going to have to promise to be quiet, all right? Can you do that for me?"





	to love you out loud

Oh, it’s that trip-over-your-own-feet-looking-at-him stumbling, that_ it can’t be good that my heart is beating this fast all time, can it? That my stomach feels like it’s been dropped off a mountain but there’s no crash, we’re just flying? _

Crowley doesn’t even need a heart or a stomach, but he’s got them, and they, like the rest of him, are just a mess of this new love, this rising thing, this utter revelation. Of course there’s fear here and it’s sharp, there’s no denying the danger of this, but that’s true of any love, whether it’s something cruel and immediate or just the impending fact of mortality. They don’t have to contend with those, their perils are Hell and Heaven itself, but so many other loves thrive in the face of fear and this one, oh this one is an impossibly flourishing thing. 

_ Wake up and he’s there, pillow-tousled in the gentlegold of morning. A quick glance at the book to remember his page and then he’s coming to you, his fingers deep in your hair, his smile pressed to your mouth. _

Let morning slip lazy into afternoon. Tangle in him, fuck for hours, learning each other’s bodies, _ show me how to love you best. _ Daylight shifts along the floorboards and his hand is caught in yours, clenching, then release. Cheek kisses and crêpes too, when he drifts asleep, damp with the mess of them both. Crowley makes them by hand, purchased the right kind of little tool to get them even, and the angel wakes beaming at the smell of them. Walks in the park, sunwarmed and dizzy on each other. Dozing in his lap, Aziraphale’s fingers moving luxuriously slow and gentle through the winedark waves of his hair, he’s letting it go long just for this. Mingling scents, fresh close-cut grass and then his breath, still edged in the secret shared salt of them, calm and close. 

_ There’s no need to hide anymore. I can love you out loud. I wasn’t made for this, but you make me feel like I could be. You’re making something better out of me. _

“I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to this,” Crowley says one such afternoon. The day’s gone late, the brisk of dusk in the air. Crowley's thumbing through pages of an old poetry favorite in the waning light, Aziraphale’s absently braiding primroses in his hair. “Every morning is—well, it’s more of a blessing than real blessings, you know better than anyone.” 

“I want you to get used to this, my dear,” Aziraphale answers. He traces his sure fingers across cheek and temple, demon marking and raised eyebrow. “I want you to be _ bored _ with all this love. I want—” and here his breath hitches, “—I want everything_...else..._to become small in the wake of this.” 

Crowley beams helplessly, turning to him. 

“Oh love, it has.” 

How many kisses has it been since the world didn’t end? A hundred? A thousand? Crowley had begun by counting them, that first glorious relief, the second bitequick and hungry, the third and then the kisses moved lower, deeper, and he tried to keep score but lost track of anything that wasn’t the many places they could touch. Thousands, it must have been at least, but each is a sacred thing, and so is this one now, soft in the twilight, smiling, flowers woven in his hair. 

“Shall we pick up some sushi on the way home?” Aziraphale asks, when at last he pulls back.

“Hmm,” Crowley says, kiss-struck and smiley. “Whatever you’d like, angel, but I thought this was the right sort of night for the Ritz? You’ve wanted to try that new amuse-bouche they’ve got on, the prosciutto-wrapped dates, was it?”

“Oh_—yes,” _Aziraphale says longingly, but there’s an edge of reserve in his voice that makes Crowley arch a brow again. 

“But if you’d rather another night, I’ve got no problem with takeaway—”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupts, a bit too firmly, but then he smiles, softens, lifts Crowley’s knuckles to his and brushes his lips to them, _ oh. _“Let’s do the Ritz, love. Let me just—” He cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair, letting the primroses flutter to the soil. They sink into it, grow roots and bloom again as if they were never plucked, more lovely than before. Aziraphale keeps his fingers in Crowley’s curls after they fall, scratching softly at his scalp, undoing the knots of him. 

“The flowers look beautiful, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

“Didn’t even mean to,” Crowley admits. His cheeks are pink, but he’s grinning too. This has been happening. Little magics getting away from him, when Aziraphale is like this with him. He should perhaps be concerned, it’s not at all demonic, but there is no sense of wrongness about any of this, he can’t bring himself to it. “They do look nice, don’t they?” 

“Splendid.” This kiss starts soft, a smile of a thing, but then Aziraphale is pushing into him with a wet, hungry tongue. “Oh my,” he says suddenly. “Erm. Well. Let’s be off, then! I’ve got the table…” And he stands, looking very much like he’s rearranging his face and shoulders back to himself. He reaches out a hand to help Crowley rise, and Crowley, bewildered, takes it.

“You sure you’re all right, angel?” 

Aziraphale presses a flustered kiss to his cheek and tugs him along toward the Ritz.

“Of course, darling, tickety-boo!” He glances down at Crowley’s mouth for a split second before pursing his lips and chattering about the particularities of the dishes he hopes to sample tonight. 

It is that brief glance that gives Crowley a flicker of understanding about what this might be. He grins to himself but doesn’t say anything, listens to Aziraphale’s gentle chatter. Dusk settles in the city and the angel and the demon meander hand in hand through streetlights and shop corners. It’s a stolen thing, a small, secret pearl in the oyster of the earth, and the bliss of it is astonishing. Crowley keeps it clutched in his hand, terrified of losing it, but Aziraphale is there through it all, listening and smiling and wanting him, loving him, all of him. He’s been quite incessant about that want, so much so Crowley’s clinging self-doubt is shrinking in the face of this nova-bright love. 

Aziraphale pulls open the gilt door of the Ritz.

“After you, my dear,” he says gallantly, and Crowley grins and steps forward. He can feel the pang of lust sloughing from the angel. Aziraphale has held the door for him for as long as there have been doors, a show of chivalry, and for just as long Crowley has been perfectly clear the angel is taking the opportunity to gawk at him. He allows just a little extra swagger in his step as he walks past, can hear the slight quickdrawn breath as he does.

As they follow the waiter to their usual table, miraculously available, Crowley slows to let Aziraphale walk in front of him. The angel doesn’t notice anything until they reach the table and Crowley places his hand on the small of that waist-coated back.

“Let me get that for you, angel.” Crowley lets his voice go low, lets his breath ruffle the curls at the nape of the angel’s neck, the very curls he had his hands in the night before last. He pulls the chair out, and when Aziraphale turns to look at him before sitting, their faces nearly close enough to kiss, Crowley catches those raised eyebrows, the slightly parted mouth. He knows his suspicions are correct, and smirks. He lopes to his own chair, dragging it slightly closer to Aziraphale’s as he does, and makes a performative study of the menu.

“We know what we want,” he says lazily, before the waiter leaves them to decide. “Angel?” 

Aziraphale is _ visibly _flustered now, but still manages a list of the hors d'oeuvres he’s been chatting about, as well as requesting an incredibly fine wine, and the waiter sets off with a brisk bow. 

Crowley is staring from behind his glasses.

“What?” Aziraphale asks at last.

_ Oh, you wondrous, magic creature. How did such a broken thing end up with someone so good? _

For the first weeks of it, Crowley—well, he certainly didn’t have his breath held, but something to that effect, as he waited for Aziraphale to wise up or tire of him, and leave. But very much the opposite has happened, the angel can’t get enough and Crowley has always known he’d never be able to, himself. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” he says softly. “That’s all. Such a massive thing, you know? I can’t believe I can hold all of this love for you, there’s so blessed much of it. But I’m managing, somehow. And it’s glorious.” 

Aziraphale’s face softens with every word, but Crowley can feel the want rising in the angel too. That’s the crux of it, they could spend eternity curled up by a fireplace together and it would be just as much of a paradise, it’s the _ you and I _of it that makes it so good, everything else is just a means to it, but fuck, if they haven’t enjoyed experimenting with this particular means. 

“I love you too, darling.” 

“And, well.” Crowley leans in, just a bit. “I was also thinking of how delicious you look in your bowtie. It is devilishly fetching.”

Aziraphale pinkens, but his hand creeps closer to Crowley’s on the table. The wine is brought and poured, Aziraphale clearing his throat into a thank you, and Crowley lets his knees fall open, one brushing against Aziraphale’s beneath the church-clean white cloth.

“This is the same bowtie I wear every day, you _ flirt.” _

“No, it isn’t.” Crowley is thoroughly enjoying himself. “Your typical bowtie is just a sort of beige brown thing. This one’s got red in it,” and it does, a deep _near-_brown red, but a red after all. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” His knee is now firmly pressed up against the other’s, and he can see Aziraphale swallow, hard. God yes, that throat. “And you look positively dashing in it, angel.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines under his breath, and Crowley has to fight to keep from grinning. He takes a draught of wine, smacking his lips, knowing Aziraphale’s watching them. He leans closer.

“It’d look even better looped around your wrists,” he murmurs. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, a muscle in his jaw working furiously, and his hand instinctively reaches for Crowley’s. He takes it. They could be any two lovers here in the Ritz, merely holding hands. No one needs to know Crowley’s running his thumb along the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist, tracing the vein there, exactly where he loves to be kissed. No one needs to know Crowley has, in fact, bound Aziraphale’s hands loose in one of his own ties, at the angel’s emphatic request, just last week. 

_ “Crowley,” _Aziraphale says again, squirming slightly in his seat. 

“I’ll stop if you want me to, angel,” Crowley says, and though he’s only doing this because he can tell the angel wants it, he means this, of course. They have their safe words, which they haven’t had to use yet, as Crowley is utterly committed to making every bit of their time together as good as possible for Aziraphale. He will never go too fast. _ Whatever you like, nothing more, nothing less. Let me be this for you. _“Do you want me to?” 

Aziraphale blinks, fumbling with his napkin with his free hand but clinging to Crowley’s palm even harder with the other.

“Absolutely not,” he says, in a sort of mortified strangled whisper, and Crowley feels a grin spread across his face. 

“Oh, love, I want to take you apart in my hands,” Crowley murmurs. “I want to get that tie off you, I want my lips on the throat beneath, I want your arms around me.” He shifts, dropping his voice to a sibilant whisper, pouring it into the angel’s ear. “I want to hold you and touch you and kiss the inside of those beautiful thighs. I want my mouth on your shoulder and your hands holding me close.” Aziraphale closes his eyes, his knee trembling against Crowley’s, his palm clammy and clinging. The lilt of the Ritz clatters around them, and Crowley is focused intently on his angel. “I want your back to me, splayed with your stomach on the bed, and I want you in my mouth, angel. I want to work you open with my tongue.” Crowley really should miracle it so no one in the vicinity can hear him, but he’s concentrating on keeping his voice low instead, the sweet-thrill of this. He leans in closer, nuzzling that pearlwhite hair. “Do you want that?” 

Aziraphale nods so fervently he nearly knocks Crowley in the nose with his chin.

“Tell me—tell me what else—”

Crowley growls, his own arousal becoming a distraction.

“I want your ass pressed against my lap, angel,” he continues relentlessly, and Aziraphale whimpers. “I want you pushing back on me, taking your pleasure from me. I want my teeth on your shoulder, I want your mouth on me.” He leans in close, murmurs this last part as soft as possible into the angel’s ear. “I want you to hold me when you come.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes fly open.

“I want you.” 

“I want you too, love,” Crowley agrees, but Aziraphale’s shaking his head.

“I want you _ now,” _ he says again, low and insistent, which is all the more surprising as the waiter has just arrived with the first of the dishes.

“What?” Crowley whispers through a disbelieving smile, over the clink of beautifully laid-out delicacies. This is new. But Aziraphale is making quite the fray of his napkin, sparing only the merest glance for the caviar before his eyes are back again on Crowley’s mouth.

“What if…?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, lets his words trail off suggestively. Crowley is flooded with want again, the hunger almost always close to the surface now that he doesn’t have to throttle it, now that it can finally be satisfied again and again, but he’s not letting Aziraphale get away that easily.

“Say it, angel,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble. Aziraphale fidgets, worrying his lip in his teeth. _ Oh, I love how you want me and want me and want me. Please don’t stop (you haven’t yet). _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines, more insistent now, and Crowley squeezes his hand.

“I’m going to give you what you want, angel,” he says, his voice gentle and reassuring but edged with the deep, aching desire Aziraphale knows so well. “Always. You know that, I promise you that.” The angel shivers, nails digging nearly painfully into Crowley’s palm. “I just need to hear you say it.” 

“I want you, love,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Now.” 

“Here?”

The angel’s eyes go wide, but he nods without hesitation.

“Yes,” he says, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t want to wait until we get home, Crowley,” and Crowley grins because of course they could be home in a snap. Aziraphale wants him _ here, _ out in the world, in this stupidly romantic setting, the thrill of it part of the fun. _ I want you everywhere. _

“If you’re serious,” Crowley says carefully, formulating a plan and also leaving space for Aziraphale to change his mind, “you know the coatroom has an antechamber. And a room beyond it.” 

Aziraphale goes a deep pink, all the more so when Crowley pulls his hand away from the frantic grasp and drapes his arm over the angel’s shoulders. It’s blatant, brazen, and he blissfully doesn’t have to care. _ I love him out loud. _

“You would go first. Make sure all the coats that’ll be asked for within the next hour are in the front room, by the attendant, and get to the second without her seeing you.”

_“Hour,” _Aziraphale squeaks, but his breath is coming quick now, pupils blown, delighted at Crowley’s plan.

“I’ll take care of keeping the food warm and the waiter unsuspicious if you can do the rest, love, and then I’ll come meet you.” _ Remember when our schemes meant life or death? When the world weighed heavy on us and oh, now, at least for now, we only have to plot silly soft things, I only have to trouble over how I get to love you best. _Crowley’s giddy with it, full to bursting, and the angel is trembling in anticipation beneath his arm. A jewel, the rarest, purest kind of joy and they get to share it.

“I love you,” Aziraphale breathes, brushing a kiss to Crowley’s mouth. “Come to me, darling,” he whispers, and nearly knocks over his chair, a winestand, and a bemused busboy as he scurries past the piano and towards the coatroom. 

Crowley watches him go, arm still draped over his chair. He runs his fingers through his hair. There are still petals there. He is becoming something else now, changed in this love, still himself but transformed in it. _ Something close to the best I can be. _He grins, casts a quiet miracle on the food and the waiters, and follows in the angel’s footsteps.

He finds the coatroom attendant in a daze slightly dissimilar from the one he himself cast on Sister Mary Loquacious nearly a year ago; she’s enough in control of her senses to placidly manage the coats and pleasantly interact with the guests. She miraculously pays him no mind as he slips past her to the second chamber and clicks the lock shut. 

The lights are just slightly dimmer than in the rest of the restaurant, a pleasant glow. Aziraphale is fretting his hands in the midst of the coats. There’s racks of them on all sides. It’s early enough in the spring that handfuls of guests have brought jackets with them to dine, all neat trim and smart cuts.

“So many human stories that get to go on because of you,” Crowley says quietly. He runs his fingers across the collar of a child-size tartan blazer, shaking his head. “You’re so _ good, _my love, honestly.”

“So are you.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft among the coats, but it blazes nonetheless, that cozy hearth-heat of him, and he closes the gap between them in a matter of strides. “It was you too, Crowley, I’m not going to let you forget it, all right?” He tilts his chin up, brushes his hot fingers across the blade-edge of Crowley’s cheek, making him smile, making the edge shift to a soft thing, _ this is what he does, always, makes better of me. _ “You’re the hero of this story too, my love.” Aziraphale says, sure and smiling and firm, and something in Crowley twists like he’s being wrung out, like the bit of him that’s still festering and sick is being purged from him. Aziraphale does this. He does this every damn day, every kiss and every word like this, a balm, something deeper than forgiveness, a saving thing, and he kisses Crowley’s dry, parched, parted lips now, murmurs kindness into them and Crowley can taste that _ fuck, _ he means it. “You fought and you were on the right side. And we won, and we wouldn’t have if it weren’t for you. You are so _ good, _ my love, my darling, and every day I am simply _ overcome _that I get to be with you, that I get to live in this love with you. You are so good, you are wonderful, and I love you, and you saved me, and I’m here, and I want you, always, stay with me…” 

The kiss comes from hunger fiercer than body, though that’s there too. Crowley feels his brows furrow, feels Aziraphale melt into him as he presses his tongue into the angel’s mouth, feels the touch of those pillowsoft hands anoint his cheeks, his throat, and then they’re encircling him, arms around his shoulders, Aziraphale everywhere.

“You’re so _ good, _sweetheart, I can’t get enough of you, I never will, I need you, please…”

“You know you save _ me, _right?” Crowley runs his fingers through hair made of heavenstuff, he gets to tug on this now, he gets to wake up with it in his mouth. “An ongoing thing. I don’t know how I got to have this, to have you see me and know me and—and—”

“And love you,” Aziraphale finishes for him, “and love you so bloody much. It’s because you’re so good, my darling, and I know it sounds like some human cliché but I do, I love you all the more every single day, and I can’t wait to find new ways to show you.” His smile is crinklesoft and tender, but his hands are clinging more needfully now, and Crowley smirks at him.

“Speaking of new ways,” he murmurs, tugging on Aziraphale’s curls. “Are you still interested? Or would you like to finish dinner, or go home?”

Aziraphale makes a marvelous sort of strangled sound, a keening thing in his throat, and Crowley undoes his bowtie as promised, gets the first buttons open and spreads the collar. He places his mouth there, where the curve of the throat meets the angel’s shoulder.

“Oh Crowley, Crowley, I want you, I want you all the time—”

“You want me right here?” Crowley pulls back, touches the pad of his thumb to Aziraphale’s lower lip. He lets the tip of his wet tongue graze it, and Crowley growls, tilting his head to the side, grinning. “Right now, angel?” 

“If_—oh—_ if you want me, that is—”

“I want you,” Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale bites his lip before seizing him into a kiss, pulling their bodies together. Aziraphale cradles his head, steps him back, pushes a gap between the coats and then it’s his turn to seize Crowley by the lapels and press him into the wall. Only this time he gazes at him for just a moment, mouth quirked in a smirk of his own, before closing the small space between them with the relief of a kiss.

Crowley’s got the rest of the angel’s buttons undone now, his hands clutching at the familiar chest, the pert nipples there, the wonderful soft-down stomach. Aziraphale tugs Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders and flashes him another searing look before sinking to his knees.

Crowley’s half-hard already, but he bites his lip at this for another reason entirely. Their sex is always a glorious, mindfuck of a gift, simply because it’s them and it’s happening, but it also does feel incredibly good—except—well. Aziraphale is definitely _ still learning _ in this department. He is very aware of it, as Crowley could do little to disguise the discomfort at his teeth to begin with, and he is _ very _committed to improving. Especially because when they’re both of a mind for it, Crowley can bring Aziraphale off with his mouth in about three minutes flat. Crowley couldn’t be less bothered by this though, what an absolute bliss of a problem to have.

Aziraphale undoes the snake belt with a mix of arousal and determination. He gives a quiet moan as he gets Crowley’s trousers and pants halfway down his thighs—Crowley thinks of asking him to just get the fly open, in case they need a quick escape, but he’s got the miracles under control and he does so love the feel of the angel’s hands on him…

Aziraphale gives a tentative lick to the head.

“Oh, that feels good,” Crowley breathes, and it does. Emboldened by this, Aziraphale grips him at the base and keeps licking at him, light, torturous laps. Crowley squirms, biting his lip again. Aziraphale _ wants _ the truth, he’s said as much a hundred times, _“how will I ever get better if you don’t tell me what you want?!” _ and he’s certainly been vocal about how he likes to be fucked, but Crowley still has such a hard time criticizing anything real about the angel, there’s still a part of him terrified of pushing him away. But…“would you—” he starts, and Aziraphale looks up at him immediately. “Would you—take me in your mouth all at once? Minding teeth,” he adds just in time, and Aziraphale wraps his lips around him, swallowing him to his base, and _ that _ feels very fucking good indeed. 

“That’s it,” he hisses, and Aziraphale bobs his head, slightly too ragged, slightly too fast. Crowley brings his hands to those kiss-mussed curls, lets his fingers thread through them, guides the pace just a bit. “Like this. Is this okay for you?”

Aziraphale makes a sound around his cock that is unquestionably assent, and any lingering hesitation on Crowley’s behalf is instantly assuaged by Aziraphale’s hands digging into the cheeks of his ass, pulling him deeper into the angel’s mouth.

“Fuck yes, angel, that’s it,” Crowley murmurs. It still could use some practice, but it feels _ good, _far better than it had, and he looks down and watches Aziraphale take his cock in that perfect, delicate, pink little mouth he’d dreamt of in agony for millennia. On his knees, cheeks puffed with effort. Crowley’s fingers are in his hair as he fucks into that mouth, and Crowley’s grinning more with fondness than anything and he’s just so deeply, impossibly in love. 

“Come here,” Crowley says, tugging Aziraphale’s hair gently at the root. He pulls back panting, mouth shining, clinging to Crowley’s arms as he clambers to his feet.

“Was that okay?” he manages, but Crowley’s already sweeping him into a swoon of a kiss, one hand clutching his hair, the other dipping him at the waist, pressing their bodies together. 

“Fuck yes, love, you are doing so well, _ so _ well, _ oh, _and I want you,” Crowley whispers, nipping Aziraphale’s lower lip in his teeth. “Now, you’re going to have to promise to be quiet, all right?” He plants kisses in the plush of that cheek, the curve of that throat. “Can you do that for me, angel?”

“Yes, please, yes,” Aziraphale stammers hoarsely, but he’s blushing in the glow of the coatroom and they both know why. Crowley turns them so Aziraphale’s the one with his back to the wall between the coats. He cups the back of the angel’s throat in one hand, lets his other caress down Aziraphale’s body until it reaches the straining, untouched bulge at his trousers, and when he grazes it Aziraphale gasps, high and breathy.

“Angel,” Crowley chastises, but he’s a mess of a gentle smile, he’s kissing that mouth, tasting himself there, _ I love how you want me, please keep wanting me. _

Aziraphale is..._loud _ in bed. He’s vocal and he lets himself cry out and gasp at every touch and Crowley asks this of him, begs it of him, _ tell me I’m doing good, teach me how to love you best, _but here—

“I know,” Aziraphale says, a choked whisper as Crowley’s hand undoes his belt, his zipper, _ “oh, _I know, I asked for this, I’m sorry, I’ll be good—”

“You are good, love,” Crowley murmurs, and he looks into those eyes, blue as a center of a flame, bright for him, never burning, “you are so good.” Crowley takes him in his hand, the hot heft of him. Aziraphale whimpers and Crowley catches it in a kiss, drinking in the sound, and Aziraphale sighs against him, pressing up. “Don’t you apologize, you know we just have to keep our voices down, we’re in the Ritz, angel, that’s all, you know I love it when you tell me what you like…”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, clinging to him, “please, please, now...” 

He’s hard as stone, his eyes half-lidded, and Crowley kisses him tender before letting him turn to face the wall. Crowley gets his trousers and his pants down to his ankles, pausing at his hip to bite the apple-white flesh there.

“I want to taste you,” Crowley groans, almost petulant, spreading the cheeks and pressing his tongue to Aziraphale’s entrance. “I love opening you like this...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hisses through gritted teeth, one fist clenched in a nearby suitjacket, the other in a gauzy shawl, “you_ —fuck— _you know I love that too, but you and I both know there is no reality in which I will be able to be quiet if you do that...so please, please, later, please just take me now, my love…”

Crowley licks him longingly just once more before pulling away, standing to cover Aziraphale’s body with his own, Aziraphale shuddering as he does. 

“You want me to go for the lube in my jacket pocket, or—?”

The jacket’s crumpled on the floor somewhere, and Crowley’s cock is hard at Aziraphale’s cleft, the split of him. 

“No, you do it, I really can’t take it anymore, dear, please, _ I need you…” _

Crowley snaps and Aziraphale stifles a yelp as he goes slick. Crowley’s fingers are slick now too, and he presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s cheek as he presses his fingers to the tight entrance. Aziraphale pushes back on him and Crowley slips two fingers inside, and it’s his turn to gasp, muffling it just in time into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

_ “Fuck, _ fuck, you feel good, angel, _ oh…” _

They’re frantic with want but Crowley will always refuse to rush this part. He works him open slow, letting Aziraphale adjust around him and nod before slipping in a third. His other hand on the angel’s hips, holding him steady, his mouth pressed to Aziraphale’s throat. This is where their breathing evens, both of them, where their bodies begin to work in synchrony. This is how it’s been, this glory of it, these two manifested antithetical beings, united by choice and want and love. In and out, the tight heat of it, an opening, an entrance. 

“Now, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, because Crowley won’t until he hears this. He tilts Aziraphale to him by the chin, kisses him gently, and enters.

He wraps his palm around Aziraphale’s mouth just in time. He sinks in to the hilt and the angel _ moans,_ ragged and wretched and _ smiling, _ Crowley can _ hear _ it, the satisfied lush, _ fuck,_ Crowley’s so distracted by how good he feels, wet and tight and pushing back on him it’s a struggle to keep quiet himself. 

He begins to thrust, but Aziraphale’s gasping into his palm and it feels good as fuck but he can’t get the angle right like this. 

“Can I—?”

“Oh blast, whatever you like, just don’t stop,” Aziraphale murmurs, hoarse. 

Crowley grins and pulls out, but before his angel can complain he’s turned him over, shoved his own trousers and pants to his ankles, and lifted Aziraphale against the wall. Aziraphale wraps his legs around his waist and Crowley really shouldn’t be able to hold him up at this angle for long but they don’t have long anyway, and he _ wants _to, and so he will. He grips Aziraphale’s ass in his hands and when he enters him like this the angel sinks deep onto him, biting into Crowley’s shoulder to keep from crying out. 

“Is this okay?”

“Yes, oh _ Crowley, _yes, yes!” 

Crowley thrusts hard into him, and now they can muffle each other’s moans, a messy kiss, a clash of teeth. Crowley grips beneath his thighs and fucks him hard into the wall, the tight wet heat of him, the want of him, pulling him in. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale pants against his mouth, “oh, you know I’ve wanted this all night, _ fuck,”_ he flings his head back as Crowley goes even harder, thighs straining but Aziraphale’s arched up for him, making himself as ready as possible, he wants it deep and hard and quick and Crowley’s giving it to him. “You feel _ so good,_ darling, you, oh, you know I—I want you all the time, I want you inside me all the time, I’m a mess of it, I want all of you, I love everything_—fuck—_everything we do, but I love this too, I can’t believe, oh, I can’t believe how good you make me feel, I can’t, I can’t, I_—oh!” _

“Angel,” Crowley manages warningly, and Aziraphale bites his lip, crushing his mouth in a kiss again. 

“I know, I know,” he whispers, “I’m being good, I promise, I’m not being too loud, I just c-can’t _ help _ it, you feel so awfully good, I love your cock in me, you fuck me so well, darling, always, I’m so spoiled for it…”

Crowley gives him that fond half-grin that’s just for him.

“I love fucking you, angel. I love the way you feel around my cock, I love when you go tight around me, _ God, _ just like that. I love feeling your cock hard against my stomach when I’m inside you, I love watching you when I fuck you, the way your lips part and your eyes flutter and you say my name, my love, and I love when you call it out when you come, but we _ can’t, _not now, we can’t, but I promise when we get home, oh, love, the next time you want it I’m going to make you cry out for me…”

_“Fuck,” _Aziraphale gasps. Crowley hoists him higher against the wall, fucking him deeper now that he’s opened, faster, plush angel thighs pressed up against his hips. “L-let me down, please, I swear I’ll be good, I promise, I just—I need your hands on me, darling.” Crowley lowers him gently and he dusts a kiss to Crowley’s mouth before he splays himself against the wall. The restaurant carries on outside, the chime of piano-music, and in the second antechamber of the coatroom, Crowley buries himself in Aziraphale’s ass again, one hand steadying himself on the wall, the other reaching for Aziraphale’s wet cock. 

“Stay quiet, angel, but tell me, tell me, does this feel good? Like this?” He angles himself directly where Aziraphale needs it, they’d work up to it another night but the angel is ready now, stifling a moan with his mouth on the inside of Crowley’s wrist. 

“Yes, yes…”

“Good,” Crowley croons, fucking hard and steady into him, working his palm over Aziraphale’s cock. “That’s it, you can bite me there, pour it all into me, love, give it to me.”

“Harder,” Aziraphale whispers, his voice a low wrecked thing, his breath wet on Crowley’s wrist. “Touch me, fuck me, harder, _ harder.” _

Crowley does as he’s told, drawing himself almost all the way out before fucking hard back into him, _ this is how he likes it close to the end, give it to him, _focusing on keeping up the pace of his hand there too, and with each hard stroke Aziraphale doesn’t moan like Crowley can feel he wants to, but instead presses muffled kisses into Crowley’s wrist, mouthing at the veins there, and this, this when Crowley’s so intently focused on Aziraphale’s pleasure, makes Crowley’s own orgasm crest to him almost before he notices it, that mouth on his wrist, _your teeth touching the part that goes to the heart of me,_ gentle and wanting and desperate, that small, impossibly romantic place of touching brings Crowley to the edge. 

“I love you,” the words spilling from him in a rush, he’s trying to hold back, concentrating on keeping his strokes, his thrusts even, but Aziraphale’s pushing back on him, tightening. 

“I love you, darling,” the angel murmurs into his wrist, wet breath rough on it, “come for me, Crowley, fill me up, don’t hold back, my love, come on, you’re so wonderful, you brilliant, beautiful darling, I want it, give it to me, you can, please—”

Crowley comes shuddering, his mouth open on Aziraphale’s shoulder, a cry stifled in his throat. Aziraphale shifts forward when Crowley’s done, the angel dripping and full. He leans his back against the wall and pulls Crowley into a kiss, reaches for Crowley’s hand and wraps it around his cock again. Crowley kisses him wet and smiling, their thighs pressed together, one hand tangled in his hair again and the other stroking and stroking as Aziraphale mouths wordlessly into him, and then he gives one cracked _ oh! _ and comes hot and hard against Crowley’s stomach and Crowley kisses him so, so tender as he does. 

Aziraphale slumps into him, damp and spent, and Crowley slips to the floor, leans against the wall and gathers the angel in his arms. He presses a kiss into his sweaty hair. They’re crumpled clothes and saltslick skin and the rough want of _ I want you everywhere, always, _ and beneath it it’s _ don’t leave me, don’t leave me, stay, I will, I promise. _

“‘M not gonna get tired of saying it, you know. So I hope you don’t get tired of hearing it, angel.” His hands stroke Aziraphale’s shoulders languidly, the angel nuzzled into his chest. They always hold each other, afterward, it’s as much a part of it. Don’t want to pull away too soon, can’t bear it, not anymore. 

“What’s that?” Aziraphale’s sleepy now, mussed and utterly satisfied.

“I love you.”

“Oh, that,” Aziraphale chuckles. “You know I won’t, my dear. But I shall keep telling you. I love you, you absolutely marvelous creature.” He tilts his head up. “Can we go home now?”

Crowley raises his eyebrow. 

“After all that?” 

Aziraphale yawns into his chest.

“Yes, well. Do you regret it?”

Crowley gives a low rumble of a laugh. 

“You naughty thing, you.”

“Don’t forget the food, Crowley, or I’ll be terribly cross.”

“I wouldn’t dare, angel.”

\-------------------------------

They curl up in their bed a moment later, the coatroom (and coats) spotless, the food in the kitchen and the bill paid with a substantial gratuity, all the Ritz staff certain the gentlemen were nothing but pleasant and demure. Crowley has _ not _ miracled away the wet of them, it’s still on his chest, between Aziraphale’s thighs. He likes it that way, they both do. _ Let it dry, we’ll wash each other in the morning. Your hands slick on me, make me yours in new ways, I’ll take you apart again if you like, if you want me to. _

“I can’t believe I get this every day,” Aziraphale whispers behind Crowley’s ear. “I suppose I also can’t believe you _ indulged _me like that, my goodness,” and this he says aloud, the spell of the coatroom broken, burying his face in Crowley’s shoulder and groaning. “Fuck, you make a mess of me.” 

“Did you like it?” Crowley asks abruptly, his jaw clenching, but Aziraphale’s already pressing kisses to it, caressing his cheek, stroking his hair. 

“Yes, oh, yes, my love, I _ loved _ it, I demanded it of you, you know I did, and you were spectacular.” His cheeks are pink-tinged, aftermath and something else. “I just am a bit surprised at what you bring out in me, making love in the _ coatroom,_ for someone’s sake, honestly. But I love it, darling, that—that this want I have for you is a fierce and fighting thing.” Aziraphale’s props himself up on his elbow now, gazing into Crowley’s warning-yellow eyes with so much tenderness Crowley’s almost begun to believe they could be beautiful. “It lived in me for so long and I choked it down and I get to live it now, and I just can’t get enough. I want you every way I can have you, everywhere, I want to travel this world with you because I know I’ll get to learn it new, with you.” He’s kissing him, exhausted and beaming, a beacon of a smile, and, oh, Crowley is found and bright in its glow. “I want mountaintops and food I haven’t even tried yet, I want you to show me the stars and the islands too, I want you to bring me to places you love and I know I’m going to have new favorite places, now that I get to share them with you. Places I didn’t ever care about before, they’re going to feel alive and alight and fresh when I’m there with you, Crowley, and I’m just so _ excited, _ I’ve never felt this way before, you see, not about earth or heaven or anywhere, ever at all, and I just love you, I love you so much, I want it all, love, and you’re giving it to me, and _ oh…” _

Crowley’s kissing him in a daze, limbs wrapped around him, a tangle of them on their bed. 

“That, angel,” he says between kisses, “is _ exactly _ how you make me feel. That there’s no need to hide anymore. I can love you out loud. I wasn’t made for this, but, Aziraphale,” and the angel’s smiling into his mouth, oh, “you make me feel like I could be. You’re making something better out of me.”

They will sleep there presently, soft and safe and sticky with each other. Aziraphale will wake first, petting Crowley’s hair in the goldenlight of morning, and when Crowley opens his eyes, Aziraphale will be there, smiling gently at him. The bath will be warm and tender, the leftovers far more delicious than they would have been in frustrated want at the Ritz. London will be a wide-open place for them to speak their new story into, Aziraphale dragging Crowley to the library and his favorite pâtissier, Crowley bringing the angel along the Thames just to kiss him in a swoon by the river, and then to the Globe, to kiss him where he wanted to kiss him over four hundred years ago. And when Crowley takes him to bed again, both are anything but quiet.

That trip-over-your-own-feet-looking-at-him stumbling kind of love, that can’t-get-enough-of-you, it doesn’t fade. It never will, not when they’ve traveled the world and loved in all the places they ached to love before, not when they’ve loved in a thousand new places after that, and a thousand more. Not when they’ve made themselves a cottage and filled it with flowers to grow and weave in each other’s hair, a home in this strange human world that they saved together, the world that gave them each other. They don’t stop saying it, breathless, to each other; it never becomes less of an awe. Theirs is a cozy sort and a swooping thing all at once, a comfort and a thrill, the purest kind of blessing: the one you choose, every day. And they do, thunderous for each other, their love a deathless swell, a triumph, a home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I needed them to fuck in the Ritz coatroom. And I needed Aziraphale giving a messy, earnest blowjob. And I needed Crowley impossibly, dizzyingly happy. Both of them, honestly. I hope you liked it!
> 
> check out my other fics, and talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr @letmetemptyou <3


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